


green like american money

by centuriesofexistence



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Rich Girl Lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 05:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centuriesofexistence/pseuds/centuriesofexistence
Summary: Heir apparent to billionaire CEO Titus Woods, Lexa Woods has one perfect Hamptons summer before she is granted control of one of the wealthiest corporations in the world. Gliding through galas and yacht parties and country club dinners with effortless grace, Lexa is a darling of East Coast high society. She has the world at her feet.Enter Clarke Griffin. The wealthy and irreverent daughter of west coast tech boom entrepreneurs, she is the one girl who can threaten Lexa’s perfect summer.And the only one she can’t resist.





	green like american money

She is the heiress to a $8.5 billion dollar fortune, and to a conglomerate that generated $58 billion dollars in revenue the previous fiscal year.

She just returned from three weeks in Italy, spent Fashion Week in France, and sat in on a meeting with Japanese tech investors, who gave her excellent advice on running her own company.

And she’s being mocked by the pink blouse and black skirt that hangs on the ornate wooden privacy screen before her.

Lexa Woods stands in the middle of her palatial bedroom, wearing nothing more than her silk lingerie and a diamond necklace. Frustrated, she gathers her long, dark hair and holds it in a pile on top of her head as she considers the three outfits hanging before her: the white bandage style dress she picked up on her trip to France last month; a lacy blue piece; and the pink blouse paired with the modest black skirt. The latter is the proper choice for the evening, despite the appeal of the other two. She has ten minutes to come to terms with that fact and right now, it’s going to take all ten.

A soft rap at her bedroom door interrupts her deliberations. “Miss Woods, the car will be arriving any moment. Please do hurry.”

Which, in Tristan’s world, means the apocalypse is imminent if she does not pick an outfit and get down to the driveway of their estate. She has five minutes.

Lexa heaves a sigh. Tristan, their butler, is a perfect reminder that she’s not actually weighing the pros and cons of each outfit; instead, she’s trying to decide just how much of a chastising she wants to endure when Titus sees her selection tonight. She has standards to meet. She can’t be late, she can’t be early; her appearance must fit the required image; she must project wealth but fall short of ostentatiousness; attract attention, but not comments. The pink blouse is by far the safest option, with those expectations in mind. Lexa’s choice of the white bandage dress would earn her quiet admonishment and a lecture on the ride home.

 _“You’ve embarrassed me.”_ She can hear it now. She’s heard it before. She’ll hear it again in the future. _“You are to be the face of this company...I raised you better...I see you’ve picked up yet another undesirable from France. Why you enjoy that country so, I will never understand.”_

And the blue dress, with its clinging shape and sheer sides, would result in outright disinheritance.

That’s the line she walks. Approval, disapproval, disinheritance. Laid out before her in the form of three outfits.

A soft breeze floats in through the open doors of her balcony, caressing her bare skin and, for the moment, palliating her headache. The first weekend of summer in the Hamptons brought with it a heatwave more suitable for late July, so her doors and windows have been thrown open all day, trying to invite the cool relief of the ocean air. But this breeze is cooler than ones before, hinting at the fast approaching evening. She finds herself gliding across her bedroom and through the open French doors, out onto her balcony. Their Hamptons estate sits on fifteen waterfront acres, the house surrounded on all sides by manicured lawns and foliage, and blocked off by a tall stone-and-iron fence on three sides. The fourth is left open to the beach beyond, green grass giving way to an isolated strip of private beach and a dock that juts out into the water. But the beach is over a hundred yards away: even the most enterprising photographer wouldn’t be able to get a shot of her up here, leaving her free to lean against the balustrade while wearing nothing but her lingerie.

The late afternoon sun washes over her and warms her skin. She tilts her head up to the sky, basking in it, eyes closed, lips curling into a smile. The sun is just beginning to touch the tops of the trees at the western edge of the estate--another reminder of her lack of time. Lexa is never late, but she especially cannot afford it tonight, of all nights, when Titus is wound tighter than a wild animal freshly caged.

At that thought, the sunshine stops feeling so golden on her face as she opens her eyes again and returns to her seasoned rationality. The next three months of summer spread out before her like a glorious feast to indulge in course by course, replete with every event and occasion she can imagine: savory dishes of galas and hundred thousand dollar fundraisers; lighter fare, like country club dinners and golf tournaments and dances; sweet desserts of yacht parties and club openings and seaplane trips into the city. All of it glistens and sparkles with opportunity.

And, not to mention, plenty of premium liquor to wash it down with--in the literal sense. Lexa loves the freedom that Hamptons summers bring, but with the pressure of being Titus’s heir greater than ever this summer, moments of release will be few and far between and she’ll have to take advantage of every chance she can get. The private nights she will be able to carve out for herself spent among friends, in the dark of a club or a late night on a yacht, sipping champagne and vodka, will be worth more than all the diamonds she owns.

At long last, the fresh air renews her. She makes her decision and re-enters her bedroom, grabbing the pink blouse and skirt from the hanger. The safe choice, for tonight. The choice she was always going to make. She adds a low heel and small diamond earrings, quickly styles her hair into something loose and flowing, and sets off through an empty house for the waiting car downstairs.

It’s been reinforced all her life, in boarding schools and etiquette classes and even in Titus’s own life lessons: she is the heir-apparent to billion-dollar Woods Industries. She must look the part. She must act the part. She must be perfect.

And she is. Whatever the cost.

 

*

 

“There is a certain quality to business deals—or any deals, really--that are completed on the golf course. The clear air means a clear head. The leisure lends itself to openness. The pursuit of competition and the mutual enjoyment of a game engenders trust and friendship between parties. The mixture of pleasure and professionalism forges relationships that can withstand the pressures of the modern world.”

Titus pauses in his speech as the assembled businessmen, politicians, philanthropists, and celebrities, around a hundred or so in total, nod along with his words. They’ve gathered here in the great room of Titus’s new country club to vie for a membership; he could stand at his podium and tell them that golf is made to be played with the feet and they would still vehemently agree with him, hoping to curry favor.

“Business and pleasure must exist in perfect harmony. That is why golf is such a great game. But Woods Creek Country Club is more than just a country club--it is a retreat, designed to facilitate pleasure, provide a refuge from the fervor of everyday life, a place to focus, a place to build lasting relationships. The decisions that shape the world over the next few decades will take place on this course, in this club. In addition to the eighteen world-class rated holes on the course, the club restaurant features rotating menus from three different three-star Michelin chefs; a wine cellar designed by fifth generation French vignerons; a five-star spa…”

As Titus extols the virtues of Woods Creek Country Club, Lexa finds herself tuning out--he’s been practicing this speech for weeks in advance of the opening night. Instead, she looks around the cavernous main room, marveling at the white marble and mahogany decor, the crystal chandeliers, the massive, two-story slate fireplace that reaches the vaulted ceiling. The wall behind Titus is entirely glass, providing a splendorous panorama of the lush green course that will be played on for the first time this Sunday. Lexa has been all over the world with Titus and seen hundreds of country clubs, but it’s clear that Woods Creek has fully earned all of the praise and accolades lavished upon it in advance of its opening. Titus and the other shareholders have spared no expensive--wealth drifts from the rafters. Over the next three months, it will have the privilege of turning away all by the best of the best applicants for membership: half of the A-list celebrities, personalities, athletes, politicians, and wealthy international businessmen in this room won’t be able to secure a membership here. Tonight will be something of a sycophant’s battle royale, as they all hope to edge one another out for Titus Wood’s attention and approval.

Lexa gives a small laugh at the thought, taking a sip of her champagne. How different Woods Industries will be when she’s in charge.

“Enjoying the speech?” comes a conspiratorial whisper from behind her, prompted by her small laugh. There’s a tinge of playful sarcasm in it, and the female speaker is obviously young, enticing Lexa to turn her head to acknowledge the woman behind her.

“I am,” she replies over her shoulder. “As a matter of fact, I wrote half of it.”

“Really?” The voice is impressed. “Then you are easily the most relaxed executive assistant I’ve ever seen. Usually, your type are hovering by the edge of the stage, ready to snap at these kind of events.”

 _Executive Assistant_. Lexa drinks down the last of her champagne to keep from laughing, ready to turn back with a smile, but the woman makes no noise to share her amusement--she’s completely serious. Within seconds of Lexa lowering her empty glass, a club employee appears from nowhere to take it from her hands and promise to return with a new one momentarily. Satisfied with that little display of power, Lexa levels her shoulders and turns to face the girl behind her, expecting to see the realization of her mistake written across her face.

Instead, she’s greeted by a smirk that says this girl has no idea who Lexa is. And that doesn’t matter, because Lexa forgets the same information.

Her mind narrows until she is only able to comprehend individual parts of the whole picture before her: long, loosely curled blonde hair; glowing blue eyes; the curves and angles of a gorgeous face. Lexa’s mouth runs dry. The girl has a mischievous sparkle in her eye, a demure curve to her lips; an inquisitively arched eyebrow but a relaxed gaze--completely contradictory. She glances down to see how well the girl’s dress matches her the rest of her attractiveness, only to find herself staring into several inches of cleavage revealed by the low neckline of a yellow sundress. Lexa’s gaze snaps back up to the girl’s face faster than either of them can blink, her cheeks burning in a way that is entirely unlike her.

Even with years of manners hardwired into her, it takes Lexa a second to recover from the electric jolt that runs through her body, and in that second, the silence starts to stretch to awkwardness.

“Relaxed executive assistant,” she repeats, trying to ignore the irony. “I...can’t say I’ve ever heard that one before.”

“It’s a compliment,” the girl says. “I don’t often meet relaxed ones. You are a rare breed.”

“Rarer than you think.”

“Maybe the ones on the East Coast are just better,” she says, with a glance down at Lexa’s body that threatens to throw off her conversation ability again. “I’m Clarke Griffin.”

“Lexa.”

Another waiter swoops in with a fresh glass of champagne for her, as promised, which she accepts without taking her eyes from Clarke’s face. Clarke doesn’t look away either. Something keeps Lexa from giving her last name; it may even be as simple as amusement that she can be waited on hand and foot and Clarke still doesn’t realize she’s more than an executive assistant. But she hides her amusement by searching her memory for Clarke Griffin’s surname, frowning when she cannot recall it. Even if this girl wasn’t already the prettiest sight Lexa could expect to see tonight, simple politeness demands that she knows all of the attendees and dignitaries she might come into contact with.

“Forgive me, Griffin, of…?”

Clarke’s face darkens, catching Lexa off guard. “ArkTech. My parents, though, not me.” She searches the crowd for a moment, until she finds a man and woman across the room and points them out to Lexa--they’re both clad in black and following Titus’s speech intently.

After pointing them out, Clarke returns to the conversation with a stony face; her sudden disaffection makes Lexa wary. “I don’t believe Woods Industries does business with ArkTech,” she says, studying Clarke. “But I do know the story, one of the great successes of the tech boom. In a little over a decade, you had a dozen patents that became over a thousand, a vertical merger that toed the line of legal, and an IPO that seemed like a pipe dream. It’s still held as an example in business schools, Wharton and Harvard are probably teaching lessons on it now. The Griffins, as a handful of the initial founders, became multi-millionaires overnight.”

“I’m aware,” Clarke says, testy. She shrugs and takes a sip of her drink, looking away. “You know your history, apparently.”

Lexa raises a brow. This is starting to raise flags--Clarke is hitting the hallmarks of the young, rich, and careless summertime stereotype, the Ivy League kids with a spot at school paid for because their parents donated a library, who don’t care about their parents’ businesses as long as the money never stops flowing. Lexa loathes any contact she has with that crowd. It’s a necessary evil most of the time, their paths often crossing at parties or country club dinners like this, but Lexa keeps her distance and does not entertain their profligacy or arrogance. Eyes narrowed, she watches Clarke carefully, then follows her line of sight to Mr. and Mrs. Griffin on the other side of the room. Clarke’s parents notice the two girls looking, and Clarke’s mother scowls, gesturing for Clarke to return to them, like she’s a child who slipped her chaperone.

Instead of obeying, Clarke turns back to Lexa with a disarming smile. She steps closer, despite Lexa’s furrowed brow, tilting her head and looking up at Lexa from beneath her eyelashes.

“Anyway, my parents’ business is the last thing I’d like to discuss on my first ever weekend in the Hamptons.”

“What would you like to discuss, Clarke Griffin?” Lexa replies evenly.

That raises one corner of her lips. Her eyes twinkle. “Whatever it is, let’s discuss it over a drink at the bar. As an executive assistant who made it to the night of the event without a breakdown, I’d say you deserve something stronger than champagne, even if you’re already so relaxed. I’ll buy.”

It happens like a flash. At the subtle curl of Clarke’s smile, Lexa falters, images of the yellow dress pooling on a black mahogany floor, of white lace sliding down full thighs, of hands between legs and lips on collarbones, of the heat of Clarke’s body mingling with hers and the sudden electric rush of pleasure. Clarke was only asking for a drink, having no way of knowing Lexa’s interest in women, but nonetheless, the sensations jolt through her and she can feel the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

But they’re over as quickly they come when she takes a moment to register the tone of Clarke’s voice. It’s a tone she’s heard before: It smacks of the same crowd of young, rich college kids partying in the Hamptons for the summer--too much, for Lexa’s taste. She’s gorgeous and dripping with a tempting sensuality, a sharp tongue and sharp eyes, but not a minefield Lexa feels like entering right now. Instead, Lexa gives Clarke the ghost of a smirk and coolly steps back, perfectly stoic despite the way Clarke’s face falls into a glare.

“Unfortunately, Miss Griffin, I wrote Titus Woods’s speech, and I know that it’s ending soon.” Her apology is so overly-courteous that Clarke realizes it’s a brush-off. “I will have to attend to him and facilitate some necessary interactions. Enjoy your drink.”

“Will do,” Clarke says bitterly as Lexa moves off in the opposite direction.

In that moment, Titus ends his speech, and the room goes up in applause.

 

*

 

Lexa’s adoptive father is not often without his loyal detachment of blue-suited sexagenarians--an entourage comprised of businessmen and politicians and a few who dabble in both--so he’s easy to find by his bald head and tall, imperious form against the field of white hair surrounding him. Lexa could stride into their midst and impress by charming them all, as expected of Titus’s protégé, but her interaction with the Griffin girl has left her ever so slightly on edge, prickly, enough to render herself incapable of ingratiating herself with them. Plus, half of his cadre argue that climate change is a hoax, so it’s not as if they’ll have anything to do with Woods Industries once she’s in charge anyway. No need to be friendly when they have mere months left.

Instead, she waits near a large window, the setting sun making her skin glow golden, sipping champagne and occasionally partaking in a conversation with a group of real estate developers she met last summer at another corporate dinner. As she does, she keeps one eye on her father and when he finally extricates himself from his usual group and moves off across the room, Lexa follows suit. She plants herself in Titus’s path and waits for his approach; once he gives her an approving nod, father and daughter fall into step.

“Nia snubbed your invitation,” Lexa observes.

This does not ruffle him. “She won’t for long,” he replies simply, scanning the party.

A foreign ambassador and her husband walk by; Lexa and Titus greet the couple with warm, respectful nods as they pass.

“You’re hinging a lot of money on the expectation that she will bow to common courtesy,” Lexa says once they’re gone.

She doesn’t attempt to hide her distaste of Nia de Rege. She knows of her only through rumors, but her dislike stems from the fact that Titus’s obsession with partnering with Nia’s Northern Lights Technology has shunted all of Lexa’s business proposals to the side. The money he’s set aside for the de Rege family business could be going to much better projects.

And he’s well aware of her of bitterness: he can hear the subtle reproach in her voice. “Let me remind you that Nia de Rege owns half of the industry in the country of Calderia and she influences the other half. The borders are opening within the next six months and Woods Industries has a chance to stake a claim before that happens, once we bring Nia to the table. Do you think I will pass up this opportunity, Lexa?”

Her jaw tightens. “No.” Despite the rumored human rights abuses, the funding of wars...but that tight jaw keeps her silent. She’s well-trained.

“I will not,” he confirms. “Nia will come to the table once I present a better offer than a country club invitation. Have patience.”

“Have you given any thought to my proposal for investing in the DC startups?” she asks, changing the subject. “That kind of goodwill would be invaluable for the public perception of the company before any sort of deal with Nia.”

“I’ve considered them. They don’t hold the same priority as Nia and NL Tech, but you’ve submitted strong proposals and I believe the board will approve of the allocation of funds.”

That’s about as strong of a promise as Lexa could have hoped for; she’s been maneuvering these deals for months now, and the final step is to get the board to approve them, with Titus’s approval. Once she takes over the company, the deals will be hers to cut without needing his approval.

“But you would do well to remember that this company was built with parsimony,” Titus continues, “not philanthropy. I support your causes in spirit but you must put the company first. I’ve had to be ruthless all my life to build this company; you must be the same to take it over.”

As if she could forget. Channeling some of Titus’s ruthlessness, Lexa gives a curt nod and mutters, “Well, at least the CEOs of the organizations I wish to deal with have honored my invitation this evening. If you have any interest in meeting them, I’d be happy to introduce you.”

She doesn’t give him a chance to respond before she slips away, in the direction of the country club bar.

 

*

 

Like the rest of the country club, no expense has been spared at the long, low bar that takes up an entire wall of the room. Titus and his designers accented the black marble and dark wood with gold fixtures, and the shelves glitter with a dark rainbow of different alcohols, thousand dollar bottles waiting to be splashed into glasses.

Between Clarke Griffin and Titus, both of her conversations so far tonight have left Lexa in need of a drink. It’s a need that the young female bartender hurries to fulfill, with stars in her eyes.

The bartender, Sadie, chatters as she works. “You know, when I got this job, I immediately read the article about you and your father from last summer’s Forbes,” she tells Lexa as she prepares her whiskey. “It was a fantastic read. You’re so inspiring, Miss Woods.”

There’s something more than stars in Sadie’s eyes, and Lexa suspects that Sadie found Lexa’s old modeling pictures in Cosmopolitan as she was searching up the dry Forbes article. Sadie is definitely hoping for something. But attractive as the girl is, Lexa would never dare get involved with an employee, for her morals and for the legal risk--and the risk of her father’s wrath.

She does find amusement in giving the girl a charming smile and watching a blush creep up in her cheeks, but the best balm to her irritation is the smooth drink she finally has in front of her. She nurses it for the next hour, watching the party go on around her. As she relaxes, a few men try the very same approach Sadie just attempted, only to be as easily rebuffed. But between their compliments, as she sits alone waiting to order another drink, someone else grabs her attention: she looks down the length of the bar only to lock gazes with Clarke Griffin, who has been watching her with a curious expression on her face. Surprisingly, the sight of Clarke reclined on a bar stool, blue eyes focused on Lexa, is far less grating than their previous conversation had been.

Clarke flashes her an alluring smile, apparently forgiving Lexa’s brush-off earlier. Heat rises in Lexa’s cheeks--but only because of the guilt she feels because of her earlier impoliteness. That’s all it is, she tells herself as she matches Clarke’s stare. She could have been far more accommodating, especially because Clarke’s offer was the only one tonight that wasn’t made because of Lexa’s last name. Clarke still thinks Lexa is Titus’s assistant.

But before Lexa can say anything, Clarke simply tips her glass toward Lexa in acknowledgment of the fact that this is the closest they’ll come to sharing that drink together; then she looks away, going back to a warm, smirking conversation with Sadie the bartender.

Lexa’s eyes are suddenly free to wander the way they couldn’t when she and Clarke were face to face. Her gaze slides down Clarke’s body, lingering over the smooth curves accentuated by her yellow sundress. It hits just above the knee, chaste and appropriate, but the deep neckline more than makes up for that by revealing Clarke’s best physical assets, on display now as she laughs with the bartender. In a sea of sleek, elegant professionals wearing black and grey and navy, the summery outfit and glimpse of skin stands out for their inappropriateness as much as their color. All eyes, not just Lexa’s, are drawn to Clarke. And if that girl is here for the summer--Lexa rather hopes she won’t be--the attention will only increase tenfold once Clarke is among her peers, the prodigal sons and daughters of billionaires at their clubs and beach parties. She’ll fit in among them perfectly.

And even if Lexa doesn’t count herself among people like Clarke and the people who will adore Clarke, she’ll have her fun this summer as well. She always has. She loves the summers in the Hamptons; she may travel the world from her home base in New York City, but the warm months always draw her back to the East End of Long Island, with all of its summertime glamour and abundance of life and wealth, where she is able to set aside her responsibilities and bask in the luxury this life affords her.

It’s with this in mind that she leaves the bar and sees to the rest of her obligations for the evening. Feeling much more centered, she follows her father’s lead and plays the affable heiress, greeting partners and investors and matching every name to every face--she’s flawless. Inexorably, the flash of yellow near the bar tends to draw her attention whenever the conversations grow cold, but Lexa comes to use this as a signal alerting her that it’s time to excuse herself and move on to the next target to charm. She keeps her attention away from Clarke Griffin: they’re in different leagues, and she doesn’t need that distraction right now.

The night winds to an end with the same slow inevitability of the setting sun, the room emptying out at the rate of which darkness falls: first the drunk and disorderly shuffle away; then the hopeful clingers-on give up their dreams and slink out; then the professional socialites, right at 10pm; and finally, near eleven, the only bodies that remain in the country club are the executives. Most are Titus’s closest business partners and other elite who will eventually be offered memberships at the club. They all sit around one large banquet table with crystal tumblers of scotch before them, the air thick with cigar smoke. A handful of other groups remain, leaning against the bar or reclining at other tables, chatting and catching up on their Ivy League days as soft music still drones on through the empty spaces in the room.

When the number of attendees has finally dwindled to this, Titus gives Lexa her leave. She gratefully bids his business partners goodbye and heads for the lobby of the club, where she gives a nod to her waiting driver to send him for the town car. Breathing in fresh air from the front doors and basking in her first chance of isolation for the night, Lexa settles into a leather chair near the front door and waits.

And almost instantly, that isolation is shattered.

“Lexa!”

She turns at the conspiratorial whisper to see Clarke Griffin striding toward her, yellow sundress swishing around her tan legs, cheeks blushed and eyes shining; and yet, she’s somehow perfectly in control of that strut. Lexa has an eye for inebriation and she suspects that Clarke is not anywhere near drunk, despite what her face may show. The small smile of greeting she gives is instinctual.

That smile is returned tenfold, with a brightness Lexa wasn’t expecting. “Lexa, come smoke with us,” Clarke urges. She gives a suggestive nod over her shoulder at the doorway, which leads out to the side of the country club.

“I don’t--”

“Neither do I,” Clarke says, dropping her voice. “Just come out here.”

Eyebrow arched dubiously, Lexa stands and steps past Clarke to poke her head through the doorway: outside, she discovers a cabal of valets and busboys on their break, leaning against the walls or standing with their hands in their pockets, cigarettes hanging from their mouths and laughter in their eyes. Clarke just delights in pushing boundaries, Lexa realizes. Someone of her stature lounging with the valets instead of mixing with her contemporaries is certainly toeing the line and damn near worthy of gossip in this little community. Lexa has never met anyone like her.

When the group of young workers see Lexa, they go sheet-white. They know who Lexa is, even if Clarke doesn’t--and they heard Clarke’s tone when she invited Lexa out with them. With all six of them staring at her in fear, Lexa gives them a small nod of reassurance, which has no effect on their silent panic. Lexa turns back to a smirking Clarke.

“They’re not really my type,” Lexa tells Clarke smoothly.

Clarke snorts; her whole demeanor shifts. “Oh, you’re one of _those_ girls. Highbrow, nose up? Good position working for Titus Woods? Honestly, I had you pegged differently--”

She’s interrupted by the stream of workers hurrying through the doorway into the lobby, pulling on their jackets and rushing back to their posts.

“Miss Woods, we’re getting right back to work,” one of them stops to assure her.

Lexa gives them another relaxed wave--she’s not her father and they have nothing to be worried about--but nevertheless, their guilt and fear of the Woods name propels a hasty scattering. Before the last one can escape, Lexa stops him; she sees his throat bob with a nervous swallow as he stands waiting for her admonishment, but instead, she pulls out two hundred dollar bills and hands them over, with the softness of an apology in her eyes.

“Thank you, Miss Woods,” he says, accepting the money, but it’s clear he’s far more grateful to get off without punishment. Once he makes it back out to the parking lot to resume his duties, Lexa turns to Clarke, to discover that her eyes are narrowed as she puts the pieces together.

“Did he say Woods?” she asks, suspicion rising. “As in...”

A smirk pulls at the corner of Lexa’s mouth; she remains impossibly cool. “Woods Creek?” she offers, with a nonchalant gesture at the country club around them.

“As in... Lexa Woods...” Clarke realizes.

“Daughter of Titus Woods, yes. Of Woods Industries.”

“Oh... _oh_.”

Clarke goes from white to pink as the shock and embarrassment battle to top each other--in her few seconds of silence, Clarke evidently recalls all of the times she assumed Lexa was just “the help”--and then the sharp glare of irritation wins out when Lexa can no longer hold back her smirk, which of course just deepens her shame. Clarke is just too proud to handle that.

“Anything else you’d like to tell me?” she snaps.

She volleys the words at Lexa in an instinctual defense mechanism, a subtle accusation that Lexa is the cause of Clarke’s embarrassment right now, that her reticence was the reason for such a terrible lapse in social grace, rather than any lack of social grace in the first place. And for Lexa, it’s _oh_ so satisfying after keeping up the charade for so long. She can’t help it. The way Clarke’s accusations of elitism died on her tongue; the way the realization struck like lightning, leaving her singed and gaping; the way her carefully constructed rebellion with the valet boys and Lexa the executive assistant crumbled with the most minor reveal of a five-letter surname--best laid plans, so the saying goes. She will never object to watching someone like Clarke Griffin make a fool of herself in her arrogance and attempt to rebel, and in fact, this little adventure has made a good night out of an otherwise stolid evening.

“I think that’s all there is for now,” Lexa replies with an upward twitch of her eyebrow, endlessly amused by the deepening of Clarke’s glower. She checks over her shoulder to find her driver waiting at the door. “Welcome to the Hamptons, Clarke,” she adds as she retreats, leaving the girl fuming in the middle of the country club lobby.

 

*

 

“Eight summers, we’ve started together in the Hamptons,” Lexa snaps across the restaurant table. “Eight summers. Going all the way back to the first summer we could drive. And you elect to abandon me on this one, on the night of Titus’s Country Club opening.”

Her accusations don’t rattle Anya in the least. Giving Lexa her best stoic runway stare, Anya sits back in her chair, pops the last cherry tomato from her lunch salad into her mouth, and crunches down on it. “You wanted me to trade a shoot in Miami for a night avoiding eye contact with a bunch of Fortune 100 Vampires?”

That’s a rhetorical question. She flashes a grin, revealing her dazzlingly white teeth.

Lexa huffs, conceding the point. She hadn’t particularly wanted to be there either, plus Anya’s skin looks fantastic with a fresh Florida bronze to it, and she would have loved to have been with her. But Lexa’s presence at the opening had been important--just like tradition is important.

“Still, that was our tradition,” she says. “After eight summers, you broke our streak.”

“For a shoot in Miami!” Anya exclaims with a laugh, and Lexa gives her a reluctant smile. “I’m here now, at least. But I laid on a yacht all weekend, getting sun and getting paid. I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. And besides, this weekend is Memorial Day. Everyone knows that’s when the summer truly begins.”

She’s right. The evidence of Long Island’s headlong plunge into summer is all around them.

The owner of Anya and Lexa’s favorite downtown bistro always places them at the same table, year after year: the premium patio spot, where they can see everyone and everyone can see them--patronizing his restaurant. Heads turning for heiress Lexa Woods and model Anya Flint is the perfect source of free publicity. But the girls don’t mind, because the seats give them an excellent view of the main thoroughfare of Easthampton’s shopping district: all up and down the sidewalk, there are more bodies than there had been the week before. More bare shoulders, more swishing summer dresses, more Birkin bags, more aviator sunglasses, as visitors and residents alike explore the extravagant shopping. The street is a motorcade of luxury cars, from black to slate gray to vibrant orange, they purr along the curb, status symbols as much as vehicles. And everyone on the street, everyone in this section of Long Island, brought here by the promise of what money combined with sunshine and beautiful people can bring.

This is the summer that awaits Lexa, Anya, and all their friends.

It’s the same promise Lexa tasted on her balcony, before the country club opening, but that seems much more real now that her best friend has returned to the Hamptons. Being together with Anya again makes Lexa yearn for the house parties and yacht days where she can be less than responsible, the way they used to, with all their friends.

As if reading her mind, Anya presses: “Everyone’s coming in for the party this weekend, too, even if they’re not staying the summer. Gustus, Ryder, Echo, Zania, Lyla, Brett, Sienna, Val...”

“The whole modeling entourage,” Lexa says, pretending to be star struck.

“I know your taste,” Anya says, then she raises a brow and lowers her voice. “Speaking of, any girls at the country club? Any summer conquests?”

For a moment, Lexa considers telling her about the interested bartender--she’s definitely not going to mention Clarke Griffin--but thinks better of it. “Even if there had been, I could have never done anything, not with Titus and fifteen percent of the world’s wealth all in one room.”

“You’re not going to be spouting that excuse all summer, are you?” Anya groans.

“Of course not,” Lexa declares. “Titus only cares about how anything affects the company or the Woods image. Which means, I can do anything, as long as it’s not permanent, public, or professional.”

Anya knits her brows together in confusion.

“Permanent: no tattoos or marriages. Public: no drunken magazine covers. And professional: I can’t make business decisions. Until he retires, he still has the final say, and I can only suggest,” she explains.

In that moment, they both pause as a smattering of paparazzi crowd in toward the low fence of the patio dining to snap a few pictures of the famous best friends. Since their days together in boarding school, Anya has risen to prominence as a fashion model since their days in boarding school, just as Lexa has escalated her apprenticeship to Titus: the media attention is nothing new for either of them, though it tends to triple when they’re out together.

Once the restaurant’s head valet and host usher the photographers away, Lexa and Anya are able to relax again and resume the last of their lunch and conversation. “They’ll probably think we’re dating again,” Lexa remarks, casually sipping her water. “Remember that summer when we could not shake the rumor?”

“Well, I did buy you that fifteen thousand dollar solid gold vibrator for your birthd--”

 _“Anya,”_ Lexa hisses, cutting her off.

Luckily, the fact that the host used them for publicity ensured that he hadn’t seated anyone else around them, so no one overhears, but that doesn’t stop Lexa from checking her shoulders before giving her friend a withering glare. Anya accepts it with all the pride of a prestigious award. Lexa spears the last of her salad with a little more force than necessary and the two lapse into the sort of relaxed silence that only exists between two people who have been friends for years. Anya doesn’t say anything until after their plates are whisked away, and when she does, she surprises Lexa with a serious tone.

“But honestly,” she asks, leaning forward, “just so I can help shut it down if need be, is that rumor public or permanent enough to piss Titus off?”

“The vibrator one?”

“No wonder Titus still has his reservations about you running the company. No, not the vibrator, Lexa. The dating rumor.”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “Says the model I tutored through four years of boarding school.”

“In French!”

“And in English! And two years of math.”

“Smartass,” Anya says with a laugh. Lexa gives her a grudging smile.

“To your question, no. You’re not on the undesirable list. Plus,” she adds with a shrug, “he knows you. So no, I don’t believe it affects my chances of taking over the company.”

“I just don’t understand him,” Anya says.

“What do you mean?”

“At this point, the idea that anything could affect your chances of succeeding him makes zero sense. You’ve been groomed for it your whole life. You’ve been perfect. You still are. There’s no way he was as good as you when he was your age and took over from his father.”

There’s really no good response to that. As well as Anya might know her, as many years as they’ve spent together, it’s still difficult for Lexa to articulate the way her father has raised her since he adopted her as a young child. She has been raised in absolute comfort, certainly, and without any hint of abuse or neglect. But every aspect of her twenty-four years on this Earth has doubled as a brick that Titus has used to build the pillars of her future: the expectations, the lessons, the behaviors, the education. All of it so she can one day take over the company. In the end, she has to accept this, on his terms, or else she gets none of it.

And truly, she’s okay with that--she knows the destination is worth the journey, worth whatever sacrifices she makes today.

She’s told Anya all of this, but as the daughter of a Tibetan movie star and an Australian model, Anya has little affection for or interest in the politics of a billion-dollar company and its CEO’s eccentric notions of legacy. Instead, once they’ve paid the bill and make their way out of the bistro, Anya looks to the immediate future: the summer ahead of them.

“Anyway, the Memorial Day party,” she says, as they stand waiting for the valets to return with her car and for Lexa’s driver to get hers. “White attire only. I’ll be inviting plenty of undesirable, to use Titus’s words. Should I add you to the list?”

Lexa scoffs. “Was I not already invited?”

“I assumed you’d be handing out money to orphans of intra-state violence somewhere.”

“I’ll be there,” Lexa replies firmly. The dark promise of Anya’s beginning of summer party brings satisfied smiles to their faces.

The sound of an engine gets their attention, and they turn to see Anya’s car gliding up. The cherry red Lamborghini turns heads all up and down the street, even here in the Hamptons, and the young valet lucky enough to drive it looks blissed out at the opportunity as he hands the keys over to Anya. She smiles proudly at the car, her first purchase with her first major modeling contract. It’s all angles, nearly as sharp has her cheekbones, a wicked temptation and made to go fast. Perfect for her, in other words.

“You really had to bring out the Diablo for a basic lunch date?” Lexa drawls.

“What do you mean?” Anya replies, all lightness and nonchalance as she lifts the wing door. The Woods town car and driver approaches, pulling into the space behind Anya’s.

Lexa laughs, shakes her head, and says: “I’m always impressed with your absolute lack of subtlety.”

“Bring out your car next time and we’ll see who’s talking!” she fires back. “Glass houses, James Bond. I’ll see you Friday.”

“Friday.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a new story that's been a while in the making. As an disclaimer, none of the Sky People besides Clarke and her parents will feature in this. I've posted some stuff about it over on my tumblr; moodboards and playlists and whatnot. You can also go there to talk about it or give suggestions for things you'd like to see! Additionally, I have a ko-fi set up on my tumblr @ centuriesofexistence if you'd like to support.
> 
> Thank you!!


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